A Most Inconvenient Marriage (9 page)

Ma hadn’t asked Abigail to wash Jeremiah’s clothes, but after his long journey, goodness knew they’d offend a skunk. While he was off sparking Laurel, Abigail ducked into the room to gather his dirty laundry piled in the corner. Fully grateful for the laundry basket that kept her from hugging the clothing against herself, Abigail headed toward the cauldron with water already steaming.

The road from the house dipped slightly before rising again and disappearing into the woods. Out of those woods stepped two barefoot urchins—Calbert’s children on one of their frequent visits. They spotted her immediately and, after a whispered conference, set out toward her. Before coming here, Abigail had never seen such dirty children. They looked more like grubworms than humans, and she suspected that the deprivations of war weren’t completely responsible for their condition.

They came to stand by her basket, the girl digging her grimy toe into the soft soil.

“Good morning, Josiah and Betsy,” Abigail said. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing, ma’am.” But Abigail didn’t miss the warning Josiah shot his sister. “We just thought we’d be neighborly and see what you’uns are doing.”

Abigail motioned around her. “Laundry.”

Betsy pointed to the basket of Jeremiah’s clothes next to her. “These clean or dirty?”

“Dirty, of course. Just look at how brown the cuffs are.”

“They goodness me,” Betsy exclaimed as she rifled through them. “Ma would call these good enough for Sabbath.”

The boy knelt for his own inspection. “Mrs. Calhoun must be just as finicky as Miss Rachel if she means for you to wash these.”

Abigail bit her lip. From the way they were standing, these two were right pleased at their accomplishment, but what had they done? More than likely the basket would answer her question.

The top shirt looked harmless enough. With a quick movement Abigail snatched it off the pile to expose a black and yellow garter snake.

Her hand flew to her throat as she jumped back. The children squealed in laughter at her performance.

“Shame on you!” Abigail tried to scold. “Scaring me like that!”

Josiah held his side with one hand and pointed with the other. “You should’ve seen your face. Your eyes got as big as walnuts.”

Betsy’s little nose wrinkled. “It was funny, ma’am. I hope you’re not holding a grudge over it.”

“I most certainly am. Just think what might have happened had I picked up this whole load at once.”

“Aw, that little snake wouldn’t hurt you,” Josiah said.

Suppressing a smile had never been more work. Abigail knelt at the basket’s rim. “If I didn’t find him, then I could’ve thrown
the poor thing into the boiling water. You wouldn’t want your snake hurt, would you?”

Before the children knew what was happening, she snatched up the snake and threw him toward the mischievous pair. With shrieks, they ducked and covered their heads.

“Your eyes got as big as walnuts.” Abigail laughed.

New respect twinkled in Josiah’s eyes. “You’re a rum one, young Mrs. Calhoun. You are that.”

Across the way, the barn door closed. Abigail pulled a tendril of hair out of her face to watch Jeremiah exit. At breakfast she’d noticed that he’d cleaned up since last night. He’d made use of the going-to-meeting clothes that she’d spotted in his bureau, and his broad shoulders looked capable of handling any crisis. Fatten him up a bit and he’d cut a fine figure, but then he leaned into his crutch and the effect faded. Abigail’s pulse slowed. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to see him whole, to make him the man he’d been before. Although she’d always been a sucker for lost causes, there might be hope for him. Because of inadequate nutrition and lack of sanitation, she’d never been able to see Dr. Jonson’s techniques work at the prison, but now she had a chance. If only Jeremiah would allow it.

Jeremiah caught her staring. Barely noticing the two children still frightened of him and of his resurrection, he clomped toward her.

“Children, your father is in the barn. You might want to go to him,” Abigail said.

But they were rooted to the spot. The boy’s eyes shone at Jeremiah. “Captain Calhoun, we’re glad you’re home. And I might as well say you got yourself a humdinger of a wife. She ain’t even afraid of snakes.”

Jeremiah’s jaw jutted forward. “She ain’t my wife, Josiah. She mistook me for someone else.”

“She don’t know her own husband?” Betsy laughed. “No one’s that addled. Besides, she’s living with you, ain’t she? If she ain’t your wife, then don’t tell Ma, ’cause she don’t tolerate such goings-on.”

His brow seemed to lower until it rested on his nose. Maybe an exaggeration, but Abigail had to look twice to clarify.

“Your ma is a good woman, and you should heed her, but Miss . . . er—”

“Miss Stuart,” Abigail supplied.

“Miss Stuart is a guest of my ma’s, and she won’t be staying long.”

The youngster looked to her for a reply. “I’ll be here until my colt is born. After that, we’ll see what God has willed.”

Jeremiah’s jaw tightened at the contradiction. “While the children will undoubtedly miss you, it’d probably be best to go before they get any more attached.”

Abigail motioned Betsy closer and cheerfully wrapped an arm around the child. “Oh, we’ve already bonded, Captain Calhoun. I count Josiah and Betsy as some of my dearest friends.”

“That’s right.” Betsy’s grin was as crooked as her pigtails. “We love Mrs. Calhoun—especially the younger one.”

“Come on,” Josiah said. “Let’s find Pa and leave Miss Abigail to do her husband’s laundry.”

With a last grin, they ran as if hound dogs were nipping at their heels, obviously forgetting that Jeremiah couldn’t catch them even if he’d wanted.

The steam from the cauldron sent sweat running down Abigail’s spine. She plucked at her shirtwaist to peel it from her sticky body, then picked up a pair of Jeremiah’s trousers and dropped them into the mix, trying to think of a topic besides her departure.

“How was Laurel?” she asked.

“It’s time for you to go.” He took his weight off his crutch and stood straight. “I’ll get the money together for a ticket, traveling expenses, whatever you want. It’s going to take work to get everything back to where it was before the war, and you’re definitely a distraction.”

“You can’t go back,” she said. “The war changed everything. Doesn’t it make more sense to let me help you around here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What about your family? Don’t you have someone who’d take you in?”

Another line of sweat ran down Abigail’s back. How had she thought she could mislead people with a clean conscience? If this man knew why she wasn’t welcomed at home, he’d never let her stay.

“There’s no one.” Not after their fight.

“Not an aunt? A brother? A distant cousin?” His sharp gaze warned her that he wasn’t easily fooled.

“No one.” Abigail tried to meet his eyes but failed. She had family, but they might as well be dead. “I could stay with Laurel.”

“Stay away from Laurel.” He loosened his simple cravat. “Look, I don’t want to be crude, but how am I supposed to court a lady when a woman claiming to be my wife is living under my roof? Betsy’s ma won’t be the only one to think it ain’t fitting.” Jeremiah’s face had turned the same shade of pink as hers, and he wasn’t standing over a boiling cauldron of laundry.

With the wooden paddle, Abigail pushed the trousers beneath the water, grunting with the effort. “I can’t leave without my colt.”

“As for that, first off, Josephine is mine, so at the most you might own half the colt. Secondly, if I was charging you room and board for the last two months—”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare! If anything, you owe me for the work I’ve put in here.”

“But now I’m home and you aren’t needed.”

The water boiled, sending slow white bubbles popping up at her. Not needed. Would she always be the one on the periphery—locked out, chased away?

He leaned in closer, trying to catch her gaze, and his voice gentled. “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I can’t be held responsible for whatever promises another Jeremiah Calhoun made you. Go back to St. Louis and look at the register again. Maybe another Calhoun was mistakenly identified as being with my division. Check if you’d like, but you’ll find that I had nothing to do with it. I’m innocent.”

Abigail pulled the paddle out of the cauldron and planted the end into the rocky ground. “I’m not asking for your permission to stay, Jeremiah Calhoun. I came here and found a family that needs me. I’ve invested in this farm, and I’m not leaving my investment behind. If you kick me out, I’m taking the horse with me. Take me to court and see what they say.”

“Nice try, but there’s no fair court hereabouts. No man who fought the Federals is allowed to be on a jury or vote.”

“Then we’ll let the Union sympathizers decide the case, if that’s what you want. My service should bolster my testimony.”

His jaw hardened. “I fought a war to keep invaders off my land. Some treaty in Washington City might say I lost, but I haven’t surrendered this farm.”

His shoulder muscles strained against his raggedy suit coat. Abigail told herself that it was his determination that she admired, not his sturdy build. But shouldn’t she of all people understand what it felt like to have an intruder invade the family? She took a long breath.

“I’m not asking for your farm. I’m merely asking that my investment be returned. I’d leave if I could, but I won’t throw away my savings.”

“Once Josephine has her colt, I could sell it and send the amount to you,” he said.

Was he really that desperate to get away from her? But Ma wanted her to stay. She still had Ma . . . and her promise to look after Rachel. Besides, the arrogant man really did need her. Maybe he could use a reminder.

She handed him the paddle. “That’d require a lot of trust, wouldn’t it? To just leave and believe that you’d send me anything, especially the correct amount? But then again, if you plan to keep this place up without me, you should have some practice. So, go on and finish this load of laundry. The wringer is on the back porch. I’m going inside to see about supper.”

If he’d missed some stains, his family better keep their complaints to themselves. Jeremiah had never done the washing before in his life, and this was fixing to be the first and the last time combined. Holding the clothespins in his mouth like he’d seen his ma do, he shook out the dripping sheet. Why bother with a wringer? The sun would dry it soon enough. Getting the heavy sheet over the line wasn’t easy balancing with a crutch under one arm, but he managed. Then pinned up his pants—a fancy trick that required three pins per pant leg—wool held a lot of water.

Jeremiah had just tossed a tablecloth over the line when his world fell apart, or at least the clothesline did. The clean clothes tumbled to the ground, ruining his labor.

Have mercy. They needed to be washed again—preferably by someone else. Of course Rachel couldn’t. She kept his mother scurrying about at her beck and call with no free time on her hands. They needed more help, especially with the house chores.
He needed . . . well, he needed Laurel to just go on and marry him, but she wasn’t keen on the idea. Not yet.

How many months until Josephine foaled? Nine? If he let that beguiling woman stay until February, could he keep her in her place? Still looking at the crumpled clothes getting muddied on the ground, Jeremiah gritted his teeth. His ma, Rachel, Laurel, and Abigail—no man since Solomon had been so beset by troublesome females.

“Jeremiah?” Jeremiah looked up to find a friend of his father’s ambling toward him, agile as a goat. “We thought you’s dead.”

He remembered to remove the clothespins from his mouth before answering. “A common misunderstanding.”

Caesar Parrow hitched his pants up his bony hips and nodded. “Wish I was wrong more often. Just had to come see for myself.”

Caesar had also joined with the Missouri State Guard but had been placed under a different division when they enlisted with the Confederate forces. He’d spent much of the war in the artillery, which explained his lack of hearing.

“Glad to see you made it home,” Jeremiah bellowed.

“Home don’t mean nothing, does it? We’re like to get killed yet.” The man moseyed closer, frowning at the duds scattered in the grass. “You doing washing, boy?”

It was Jeremiah’s turn to be hard of hearing. He stepped over the soggy clothes to his guest. “Have you had any trouble up your way?”

Caesar nodded. “Strange tracks. Dogs barking at night. No-account soldiers from both sides are taking their time getting home.”

Jeremiah’s heart skipped a beat when a man broke through the trees on a scrawny mule. It was the postmaster, his mail pouch bulging with deliveries.

“Well, I’ll be. Jeremiah Calhoun. Didn’t think we’d see you again.” He dismounted and nodded at each of the men.

“You shouldn’t count me out too soon, Finley.” Jeremiah’s spine stiffened. Never did like the shifty man.

“Well, when your wife says she saw you buried, I ought to believe her.” Finley handed Caesar a creased envelope.

“Aww, Mrs. Calhoun?” Caesar stuffed the envelope into his half-buttoned shirt. “I met her when I got burned smithing. She’s uncommon pretty, she is.”